


asystole

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Major Character Injury, Temporary Character Death, for real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15967562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: The only thing that matters is his goal, the stairs leading up into darkness a few hundred feet away, so far it could be a mile, could take an eternity to reach them.“Hold on,” he mumbles, taking another slow, staggering step through the shifting, eerie green light. “Hold on, Ryuji. We’ll be there soon.”





	asystole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flywoodpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=flywoodpaper).



> please read the tags, and if you're uneasy about the contents, skip down to the end notes for spoilery explanation!
> 
> this was a commission for flywood, @flywoodpaper on twitter! thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to be absolutely hideously mean to our favorite boys :3c

  
  


Beside his ear, Ryuji makes a wet and bubbly cough. 

It’s not all that loud, but it’s still enough to send shockwaves through Akira’s aching head, bringing a fresh wave of frustrated, agonized tears to his eyes. The wound on his temple leaks another slow line of blood like a disgusting caress down his cheek, into the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t have the energy to spit it out. The awful metallic tang keeps him focused, at least, on the here and now, even when his vision blurs, doubles and quadruples and wavers and shifts, even when every movement sends radiating agony through his chest and up his spine.

It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is his goal, the stairs leading up into darkness a few hundred feet away, so far it could be a mile, could take an eternity to reach them.

“Hold on,” he mumbles, taking another slow, staggering step through the shifting, eerie green light. “Hold on, Ryuji. We’ll be there soon.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. When he looks back on what happened, he can never find fault with anyone or anything. These things just  _ happen _ in the Metaverse. A situation well in hand can shift in an instant, throwing everything into disarray.

What happens is this: They’re fighting shadows in Kaitul when Akira hears chains rattling behind them. It’s a sound they’ve heard before, though not very often; Morgana’s hackles raise every time, his motor squealing up into higher registers, spurring them on faster and faster to the nearest floor. Whatever monster makes those sounds, it’s not one they’ve been ready to face.

But they don’t get a choice this time.

Without warning a massive shadow in bloodstained robes and heavy chains crashes into the middle of their fight, gun blazing, downing two of the gathered Anubis and Anzu and sending the rest scattering like panicked birds. Morgana screeches a warning, already poofing into bus form, “Pull back! Pull back!! Everyone pull back  _ now,  _ that’s the Reaper, we can’t fight it, we have to go  _ now!!! _ ” but it’s skidded between Akira and the rest of the group, he doesn’t have any room to maneuver around it.

He could fade back into the shadows and hope it passes him by, or he could grab its attention and give the rest of his team enough time to escape. Akira’s never been one to let someone else take the hit for him.

“Hey, big ugly!” he shouts, and unloads a shot directly into its head. “Over here!”

“Joker,  _ no!” _ Morgana yowls, the rest of the Thieves shouting from his windows, but it’s already done; the Reaper turns its blank face towards him, radiating menace. Good. That’s fine. He’s got this. Akira braces himself as the shadow barrels towards him— 

— A black-suited body flies in front of him just as the gun comes down, points, and shoots, and the impact sends them both flying into— and  _ through— _ the wall.

The last thing Akira sees before the ceiling collapses in a shower of rubble, blocking the hole off completely, is Morgana’s tail lights flashing bright, unhappy red as he flees.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

He blinks as another trickle of blood drizzles its way across his eyelid; his vision wavers, and that’s just enough for him to miss some debris on the floor, turning his ankle and sending him crashing to the ground. 

_ It hurts, _ so much he cries out, so much his entire existence is narrowed to nothing but incandescent agony; his ribs, his hip, the new sharp stabbing pain in his ankle, the scrapes on his hands and elbows, the incessant throbbing nausea in his head, and it’s  _ so much  _ Akira sobs, gritting his teeth as he rolls himself onto his right side. It hurts only marginally less, but he’ll take it.

Falling means he’s dropped Ryuji. Ryuji isn’t moving to get up. For his sake, Akira hopes he’s unconscious; even with the makeshift splint, his left leg has twisted into a direction legs really aren’t supposed to go.

Between the light and Ryuji’s leathery black suit, he can’t tell if Ryuji’s bleeding anywhere else yet. There’s more than enough that he  _ can  _ see as it is. Ryuji’s red scarf stands out stark like an accusation where it’s tied around his upper right arm, the exposed skin pale and bloodstained. There’s gouts of it all over his lower face; his nose still misshapen, face already bruising into two hideous black eyes. He looks like he stuck his face into a bucket of gore. He’s so pale. Almost grey in this light. 

And—

Akira touches his face, tilts his head, leans down even though it makes his ribs  _ scream _ , because, no,  _ no, no no no no no _

— and he’s not breathing.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

Someone’s shaking him.

Someone’s saying something in a tone he knows but can’t parse, in words he should understand, and it takes longer than it should to open his eyes. They’re gummy, almost stuck together, and there’s blood in his mouth, drying tacky on his skin. He groans, tries to twist away, but slowly it comes back to him.

Reaper.

_ Ryuji. _

He opens his eyes.

Ryuji’s above him, mask long gone, blood on his face and tears in his eyes. Blood everywhere. Staining his nice yellow gloves. His nose is almost flat to his face, crushed against his cheek. The room is dark, but Ryuji’s lit up, electricity dancing along his skin in long, nervous waves, sending the shadows in the room flicking and spinning and spiraling, and it’s so  _ much _ .

He barely rolls over in time to vomit, and once he does he can’t stop, even though it’s the worst thing he’s ever done. His ribs scream, his head screams, his stomach roils and roils and he retches until there’s nothing left inside, until he’s empty and even the dry heaves have subsided.

Akira’s been hurt in the Metaverse before. Broken bones, stab wounds, burns and cuts and bruises aplenty. Nothing like this. Nothing as painful as this, something overpowering and all-consuming. He’s gotta— he can’t deal with anything like this. Doesn’t he have a persona? Doesn’t he have lots?

Everything feels slow and sluggish, too much; his fingers hit the corner of a mask and slip, the words lost in his mouth, tripping harshly off his numb, fumbling tongue, and Pixie bursts into light above him, winks—

And vanishes.

He let her  _ go. _

He let her go and Ryuji makes a pained noise, watching it materialize and fizzle into sparks, watching it fade into the ether without the gentle warm touch of cooling magic. Akira groans; his arm gives out, sending him tumbling down, barely avoiding the puddle of his own sick, words swimming in his skull without understanding, without registering, for long, long moments.

After a while— he doesn’t know how long— it fades enough for him to function. He sits up, as carefully and cautiously as he can, wincing at the radiating agony in his side. “Ryuji,” he says groggily, spitting out the taste of iron in his mouth once, twice, three times. “Ryuji, are you— okay?”

“Am I— no,” Ryuji says, half hysterical laughter, half horror, voice thick with pain. “No, man, I ain’t nowhere  _ near  _ okay, and neither’re you—” 

“‘M fine,” he grunts, and rolls over to see Ryuji’s left leg turned almost entirely backwards at the shin. The fabric of his pants is ripped. Something pale and jagged pokes out through the hole, something he can’t think about too closely or he’ll vomit again, because no matter what his persona is Ryuji’s bones are supposed to stay  _ inside _ his body— 

Somewhere beyond his body, Ryuji’s voice wavers in and out. “Don’t pass out on me again— Joker,  _ Akira, _ please, y’gotta—  _ fuck—  _ y’gotta stay with me, babe,  _ please—” _ He sounds panicked, and somewhere deep inside Akira knows he  _ should _ be. They both should be. The others are long gone by now. Pixie was his only persona with healing skills. The Reaper could be waiting for them. He can’t see straight, can barely  _ think _ straight, and Ryuji’s leg is completely and utterly fucked.

He should be panicking. He thinks he might be in shock.

And even through the sticky slow morass of his thoughts, gummed in blood and pain, he knows two things.

One: they need to get out of here. Fast.

And two: they’ll need to splint Ryuji’s leg first.   
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

How is he not— he was just— just wheezing into Akira’s ear, pained and irregular but  _ there, _ and Akira tears his glove off with his teeth, scrabbling to press his fingers into the soft skin underneath Ryuji’s chin. There’s veins and arteries there, he knows, that’s where you find the pulse, that’s the best and easiest place— but no matter how much he pushes, no matter how much he moves Ryuji’s head for a better angle he feels  _ nothing. _

Nothing but skin, clammy and cold and pale. He doesn’t feel a heartbeat. He doesn’t see Ryuji’s chest rise. When he shoves Ryuji’s eyelid up with trembling fingers, the gaze underneath is empty. Blank.

No one home.

“No,” Akira says, a plaintive whine, punched out of him. “No, no no no, Ryuji, don’t, you can’t— Ryuji, come on,  _ Ryuji, _ this isn’t funny, st— stop holding your breath, this isn’t— “

But it’s not a joke. It’s not a game. None of this has ever been funny or fun. It’s always been him and Ryuji laying their lives on the line. This time Ryuji didn’t pick his back up again.

Akira’s the only one with nine lives around here. He’s the special one. The wildcard. The person with the power to hold any persona he wants. And the one useful one he had in stock he let go, and now Ryuji, beautiful, beloved, brilliant out in public or in the attic or fighting in the metaverse with lightning crackling around his palms and wild joy in his eyes— 

Wait.

Electricity.

There are things— they can bring people back— Akira shuffles blindly through his masks until he finds the one he needs and  _ yanks,  _ and Yurlungur coalesces above him, coils around him and fills Akira’s palms with white-hot sparks that fade at a command.

No time to be gentle. He grabs his dagger and rips it through Ryuji’s outfit, shoving the ragged edges apart to gain access to his chest. (He’s seen it bare dozens of times now, the bathhouse and the beach and in Akira’s own bed, but never like this, scratched and bruised and bloodstained— ) and over his left side spreads the worst of the bruising, mottled red and corpse-purple. Hideous. Disfigured. Ryuji should never look like this.

Too late to worry about that now. Akira draws the lightning back into his hands and slams his palms down.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  


Step by aching, awful step, they wind their way back towards the platform.

Ryuji has to be carried. Akira can’t support him by his side, and Ryuji can’t walk, not on the shattered stump of his leg. 

It’s slow, painful travelling. Akira can barely move without heaving, and Ryuji’s not a lightweight in any sense of the word. Every step sends stabbing pains shooting through his side; he thinks his ribs may be broken. Not anywhere near as badly as Ryuji’s leg, but...he has to walk slow and careful near the wall, so Ryuji can brace them every time he staggers.

Akira can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hear the Shadow coming up on them from behind; hell, he barely hears Ryuji’s panicked shout before it rears up and grabs them, throwing them down the hallway.

They land hard on the tracks. Ryuji first, then Akira. Ryuji makes a choked-out yell that tapers into a wheeze; Akira throws up again upon impact, pain flashing so bright behind his eyeballs that he fears he might be blind. He scrambles up in front of Ryuji, crouching low, summons the first thing he can think of—Shiisaa roars to life, and he attacks, attacks, attacks, until the shadow is nothing but a pile of goo and ash.

“Akira,” Ryuji says weakly behind him, a wet rattle in his chest, “Akira...somethin’s real wrong. Somethin’ feels...real bad…”

It’s hard to rush, but Akira does so, staggering as fast as he can to kneel at Ryuji’s side. “What is it?” he forces out of numb lips, from a tongue that feels like mush.

“Dunno,” Ryuji says, and coughs. A trickle of dark liquid seeps out the corner of his mouth. “Somethin’.... somethin’ tore. Feels… loose. Bad…”

“Fuck,” Akira says, despairing and exhausted and pained. “We— we’re almost there. Can you— can you hold on?”

“Hurts,” Ryuji says, softer now, and closes his eyes. “Akira, it hurts.”

Getting him back across Akira’s shoulders hurts more. By the end, he’s passed out again. Akira can’t blame him.

Step by dreadful step, they make their way through the dark.

  
  
  
  


Charred flesh fills the air, sickening and nauseating, making him retch, and to no avail. Ryuji’s body twitches and jerks with the remnants of electric shocks, but the life doesn’t come into his eyes, the breath doesn’t come back into his body. He’s shocked him four times by now, strengthening the lightning in his hands each time, and still Ryuji just  _ lays _ there. Limp. Like an empty puppet. Like a — 

Like a  _ corpse. _

But he  _ can’t _ be dead. They’re— the safe room is  _ right up those stairs, _ that’s where they can wait and meet the others, and it’s not fair, it’s not  _ fair,  _ they’re almost home safe, Ryuji can’t— he can’t be— 

Something wet hits his hand and fizzles along the electricity still limning his skin. Belatedly, Akira realizes he’s crying.

“C’mon!” 

He slams his hands down again, discharging the lightning in a pulsing wave. The scent of burned meat rises hot and heady; Akira’s scarred two big round patches of skin red and raw and yet somehow also crispy, and Ryuji  _ still—  _

“Come  _ on! _ ” 

Again, stronger than a Ziodyne, and Ryuji jerks beneath him as the electricity jitters through his flesh and lights his nerves, but he still— he’s still limp and cooling under Akira’s palms and this is  _ not okay—  _

“ _ Ryuji!”  _

Again, and now he’s sobbing, the tears falling from his eyes to flash away in a  _ fsst _ when they hit the ropes of lightning curling over Ryuji’s chest, his slack face, blood still trickling from his lips, and no, he can’t, he’s not going to let it end like this, he’s not going to let  _ Ryuji _ end like this.

_ “Fuck!!!”  _

Again, and again, and he can’t see through the tears, can’t breathe through the snot clogging his nose, through the pain in every breath as his lungs scream, as his arms scream, as  _ he _ screams, discharging wave after wave into Ryuij and he won’t

wake 

up 

Disconnected thoughts scream through Akira’s head like the most accusatory eulogies ever written.

His hair is so coarse under his shaking hands. He’s so fastidious. Showers all the time. Spends ages making sure he’s properly trimmed. He shouldn’t be stained with blood like this, doesn’t belong in this pallid green hellscape— he wipes the side of Ryuji’s face with his sleeve, over and over, but the blood just smears across his cheek.

Akira pulls him up tight to his chest, cradling his limp, lifeless body, and howls.

  
  
  


Someone’s hand lands on his shoulder. Someone shakes him. He doesn’t care.

Someone else grabs his chin and yanks his mouth open, shoving something cool and round inside before slamming his mouth closed, crunching it between his teeth. The shattered pieces melt into nothing, cooling the inside of his mouth and throat, washing away the lingering taste of blood, and— 

— and the pain is gone with a suddenness that he can’t fathom, just in time for him to open his eyes and see Makoto slipping a Revival Bead into Ryuji’s mouth, giving him the same treatment. He can’t look away, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even hope. All he can do is watch.

And a moment later, Ryuji opens his eyes.

He blinks; he stretches his arm out and pulls the tourniquet off, and the skin below is bruised but whole again. His nose is straight, his leg realigned, and he sits up despite Makoto’s protests, flinging both his arms around Akira’s neck. “Fuck,” he hisses, low and hoarse and shaky, his fingers clawing into Akira’s back. “ _Fuck_. Akira—” 

“Shut up,” Akira rasps, face already buried in Ryuji’s shoulder, clinging on just as hard.

Somewhere behind him he’s sure the others are gathered, waiting patiently (or not) for them to get up, so everyone can go home and put this awful day to rest.

They can wait. Akira needs this, needs Ryuji hyperventilating under his hands, needs him shaking in his arms, horrified, traumatized,  _ alive. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery content: Ryuji temporarily dies from heavy injuries sustained from the reaper, but is healed and alive at the end of the fic I DON'T DO PERMANENT CHARACTER DEATH BECAUSE I WOULD ALSO DIE HDFHSDJF THIS IS THE MEANEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN IN MY GODDAMN LIFE


End file.
